The Dreaded Info Dump
Imagine you’re at a party, where you don’t know anyone.
(Apologies if you’re an introvert like me, where “being at a party where you don’t know anyone” ranks right up there with “skydiving” or “being hunted for sport” on the list of things you’re afraid of.)
Anyway, you’re trying to figure out what this party’s about, and whether you like it enough to stay.
The host then suddenly introduces you to literally everyone, in rapid succession.
As your brain struggles to remember the cast of thousands you’ve just met, you’re then brought into a conversation where one or two of them give you very specific details about themselves. Their jobs. Their relationships. Specifically, what they want out of life, and why it’s important to them, and what they think their next steps are.
You’re nodding like mad, but you’re bewildered. Who are these people? Why are they telling you all this, and why should you care?
Most importantly: where is the nearest exit?
That, basically, is info dumping.
You’re trying to tell the reader about the characters, but it inundates them. Either you’re trying to introduce too many characters, or you’re trying to share too much about main characters.
Or both.
Often it’s a case of manipulation, too. You’re so intent on the reader feeling a certain way about your characters and your story, you’re piling detail after detail as evidence to “convince” them to experience the story a certain way.
Unfortunately, the opposite happens. Even if they’re naturally disposed to like your basic premise, your heavy handedness will drive them off.
So what do you do instead?
Hints.
Back to the party.
You aren’t introduced to anyone. You’re minding your own business, looking for someone to maybe engage with, to give this unfamiliar environment a fair shake before opting out.
You notice a woman sitting on the couch. She appears uncomfortable, but her expression is also determined. In a party of people in business casual, she is wearing a T-shirt under a somewhat lumpy cardigan sweater and a pair of jeans that are meticulously embroidered with curling stylized clouds that seem somewhat familiar.
She tries awkwardly to join a conversation, but is shut out by the business crowd. She makes a quick swing by the snack table before returning to the couch.
You expect her to be upset… but she’s smiling. She takes off the cardigan to reveal her T-shirt has an anime graphic of a jewel thief.
As it happens, you’re geeky, and you like anime. You, too, like heists. You also like underdogs, and her treatment at the hands of the suit-and-tie group irritates you.
In the minute or so you’ve watched her, you’ve gotten a solid first impression, and for you, it’s positive. You’ve found one interesting person, even if you haven’t interacted.
You decide to stay a little longer.
Hooks.
You’re still watching Cardigan Woman. You then notice that she’s about to leave… and she bumps into one of the suit guys. He absently waves off her apology.
Her smile widens.
She then says goodbye to the host of the party and leaves, tucking something into her pocket.
Before you leave, you hear the man in the suit yelp that his Rolex is missing.
You put two and two together.
You are definitely intrigued.
That, my friends, is a hook.
How does this translate to writing?
Obviously, not every story is going to be a thriller or a jewel heist romp. But the basic components are the same.
You’re going to introduce character by the things that you love about them, why you’re writing about them – which, coincidentally, are going to be what your “superfan” reader will love about them.
But only hints.
You’re going to only deliver enough detail to tease. Things that the reader, who is a fan of certain things, will know and like.
In this case, assume that your reader knows going in that this “party” is a thriller. They’re already looking for clues.
Cardigan Woman is “one of these things is not like the others.” That’s a hint.
She’s unfazed by her treatment. Crafty. More hints.
Then you’re going to set your hook. Something that is startling enough that, as a reader, they can’t help but ask: what the hell is going on here?
Here, that’s the theft. Not only did she seamlessly steal the watch from the (probably unpleasant) man in the suit, she’s out the door. Why?
For an opening especially, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, more powerful than reader curiosity.
Payoffs.
Reader curiosity will also propel readers through the entirety of your story, but it has to be used correctly.
Using the Rolex thief in the above example, you probably shouldn’t introduce that in the first chapter, and then not explain why/how she’s a thief until the last. Reader patience and curiosity does have its limits, and frustration can either kill it, or cause them to hate read just to get the answer… and then usually winds up with them leaving you a bad review, because what they slogged through wasn’t worth it. It also creates a plateau of conflict, a repetition where we think we’ll find out something and don’t.
What you always want is an escalation.
What you want to do is close the loop with a payoff.
If the party was a story, your POV character might (as, say, a retired policeperson) follow the Cardigan Woman to see what the deal was with the Rolex. Perhaps follow her to a nearby diner, and then quietly point out you know she stole the watch.
She’d then admit to perhaps being a kleptomaniac, and give the Rolex back since “it’s not about owning, it’s about challenge.” That pays off what happened in the party.
Theoretically, that’s done. The reader’s curiosity is satisfied. They can then either put down the book or abandon it entirely.
Obviously, we don’t want that.
So you open a new loop, with hints and another strong hook. The cop can tell that she’s partially telling the truth… but she’s also partially lying.
Why was she at the party? She’s admitted that she likes challenges. She won’t say who invited her or why she was there. The cop’s curiosity is whetted. She’s obviously up to something. What?
The hook?
She ditches the cop neatly at the diner. He never saw it coming.
He, and the reader, now have to find out what’s going on, for whatever reasons you’ve got set up. (That’s GMC, which is hopefully strong.)
This is what you want to do with your writing.
Hint, hook, payoff.
Rinse and repeat.
But how will you ensure readers are intrigued and hooked?
By knowing your audience.
The biggest problem of information dumping is that you’re trying to persuade, rather than tempt.
From a sheer semantic standpoint, to persuade means to cause someone to do something through reasoning or argument. You’re giving them all the details you think you need, and then some, to hammer home: you have to like this! And here’s why!
To tempt, on the other hand, is to entice someone that already has that urge or inclination, but has some resistance toward. You’re giving them a glimpse, then whispering: c’mon. You know you want to.
The first one is frog-marching a reader toward a destination. The second is simply opening a door and trusting they won’t be able to resist it.
This is why it’s emphasized: you’re not trying to fit all audiences. You’re trying to find your perfect audience, and leaning in. They won’t be able to help themselves.
“What if my target audience is only 5 people?”
Anecdote time!
When Ebay started, it was a teeny, baby website launched out of a spare bedroom as a side hustle.
To test the live site, the first and only product it put up was a laser pointer, for one dollar. It wasn’t meant to sell. In fact, the pointer itself didn’t even work.
Imagine the creator’s shock, then, when it got bids.
He tried to explain to the first purchaser that the laser pointer was broken.
“That’s okay,” the purchaser explained. “I collect broken laser pointers.”
At this point, the Ebay creator realized he was onto something.
There is a bigger audience than you’d think.
While there might not be enough of an audience to make the New York Times list right out of the gate, the key is to find your people, and then delight them with the best stories possible. Especially in a time where ebook retailers make fulfilling any niche story desire possible, just because it’s not a market trend doesn’t mean that it’s a black hole of readership.
That doesn’t mean catering slavishly to what they want via poll or anything drastic. It does mean trusting that they’ll get what you’re going for. Knowing that if you write the strongest possible story that you love, with your skills and your unique voice, they will support you. Even spread the word about you, so your circle of influence actually grows.
There is also the trick of finding them. But that’s another newsletter… if you’re interested. Just let me know!